Stripped Pride
by Indelible Evidence
Summary: When Kurt Weller is forced to go undercover as a male stripper in a women-only club, he doesn't plan on actually doing any dancing. Unfortunately, to keep his cover, it looks as though he'll have to do just that - and only Jane can save him from having to lap dance for a stranger...


**Author's Note:** This is actually not an idea I had myself, but in return for a charity donation to RAICES, which is a charity trying to help all the people being held in concentration camps at the US-Mexico border, I accepted a commission (for legal purposes, please note that I made no money on this myself! I just provided the incentive for a donation to be made - and I'm still taking commissions at 200 words per dollar donated, if anyone is interested).

It was actually only supposed to be half as long, but then it got away from me a little bit, so the commission recipient gets an extra half a fic as a free bonus. The idea I was given was Kurt being forced to go undercover as a male stripper, which made me laugh so hard, because Kurt would HATE it. But then I wrote it and it actually came out a little more serious than I intended? It's meant to be kinda funny, kinda cracky, and kinda romantic in spite of it all. Anyway, I hope she likes it. Camila, this one's for you!

* * *

**Stripped Pride**

"I can't do this."

Kurt Weller, supposedly the Deputy Director of the FBI, turned his back to the mirror and stared over his shoulder in abject horror. The navy-blue hot pants cradled his ass cheeks, a pair of fluffy handcuffs dangling from the back of the shiny, PVC belt.

It was like a scene from a nightmare dredged up from the depths of his subconscious, one he would wake from feeling humiliated, but happy it had only been a dream. Only he wasn't waking up.

"There's no time to find a replacement agent. Just be happy they found you a costume where you can wear a shirt." Over his comms, Patterson sounded amused, but seemed to be trying to hold it at bay, for his sake.

"I can't wait to see this." Rich Dotcom's gleeful voice made Kurt grit his teeth. "Kurt Weller wearing a 'sexy cop' stripper outfit? This is the best day of my life."

Kurt swallowed a snarl. "Rich, don't talk to me. The only thing you're here to do is identify the three women we need to arrest. You keep your eyes glued to the camera footage of the entrance, you tell Patterson when you see one of them, you keep your smartass comments to yourself…and as soon as this is over, you're going straight back to prison. Understand?"

"Okay, okay." Rich shut up—at least, for now.

Kurt ran his fingers down the Velcro fastenings holding the tight faux-police shirt closed, checking they weren't likely to burst open if he bent the wrong way. It felt as though they might, but at least the shirt covered his torso, even if only for now. He couldn't say the same for the hot pants and his legs.

At least the three criminals who were due to meet here would be arrested as soon as Rich confirmed the third had entered. The idea was to stop any of them being able to alert the others that one of them had been captured. Get all three women at the same time, and the bomb—which they still had no idea of the location of—couldn't be armed. By them, or any of their subordinates who might be waiting for the order.

Kurt was never sure if they ran into Rich Dotcom on so many cases as pure coincidence, or whether Shepherd had specifically included corruption tied to him in Jane's tattoos, just to drive Kurt crazy. Either way, as he repositioned the ridiculous PVC policeman's hat on his head, he mentally cursed both Rich _and_ Shepherd.

"God, I wish Reade were here," he muttered, looking from his reflection to the door, through which he'd have to enter the upscale club's main room. Reade was still taking a leave of absence for PTSD, which had spilled over into his fieldwork. At a time like this, Kurt could really have used his help, but he respected Reade's need for time off.

"How come?" Jane asked, through his comms.

"Reade's ripped, so he'd be the usual choice for the sexy dancer role," Zapata answered, before Kurt could. "Not to say that Weller's weedy and weak, but if you compare the two of them…"

"If you compare the two of us, I do a little more with my personal life than work out and then hook up with girls for one-night stands," Kurt finished. His 'personal life' these days usually involved all the extra paperwork that came with being a deputy director—essentially, he _had_ no personal life—but he wasn't going to point that part out. "By the way, there's nowhere to hide a weapon in these pants, so depending on how this goes down, I might have to rely on you guys more than usual."

"We'll have your back, Kurt," Jane said reassuringly.

"Yeah, we'll defend you from suburban terrorist moms and lust-crazed women alike," Zapata added, with an audible snicker.

Kurt grimaced at the reminder that Jane and Zapata were out there, seated amongst the other women waiting to see the unnaturally muscular, oiled-up men who'd be dancing onstage tonight. At least Kurt wouldn't be one of them. Unfortunately, the only other way a man would be allowed to walk around the women-only club was as a server. Kurt would be taking the orders of the thirsty—_in more senses than one_—women in the audience, then bringing their drinks back to them.

The risk was that the audience knew they could pay for lap dances from the all-male waiter crew. It was in the exclusive club's membership rules, along with the caveat that during the lap dance, the patron was allowed to touch the dancer's 'biceps, chests, abs, butts and thighs—but no going below the belt, ladies!' The club's management had assured Kurt that he could refuse any requests, but in doing so, Kurt would risk drawing attention to himself, and if he stood out as not being just another server/dancer, one of their targets might get paranoid enough to leave before all three were present.

Kurt wished he could say that he'd let New York blow up before allowing himself to be groped by drunken, horny strangers who saw him as nothing but meat—but he couldn't. It was his responsibility to safeguard lives, and if he was put in a position where he had no other choice, he was going to have to dance.

"Okay, that's the second one who just walked in," Rich said. "Amelia Lancaster. Blonde hair, zig-zags on her shirt, and epaulettes worthy of the 1980s."

"I see her," Zapata confirmed.

"We're just waiting for Terri Iverson, and we're good to go," Patterson said.

Kurt cursed under his breath, too low for the comms to catch. He had to be out there when the third woman arrived, so he could no longer stall.

"Come on, Kurt," Patterson prompted. She was watching the surveillance footage from the van, where she waited with a securely handcuffed Rich Dotcom. "Iverson could be here any minute. We need you out there."

Kurt rested his palm on the door, allowed himself one last, emphatic curse under his breath, then pushed through into the club. _Don't think about them seeing you like this. Just get the damn job done._

"Oh, there you are," Patterson said brightly. What she wasn't saying was obvious—that he looked ridiculous.

"Ohhhh, nice hat, Weller." Zapata's voice was thick with amusement, and he swallowed back a growl of frustration.

"Nice hat?" Rich responded. "More like nice _ass_. But I guess you guys can't see that from where you are."

Now that he was out in public, Kurt couldn't respond unless he looked like he was talking to someone nearby—or didn't care about being made. He instead turned himself to the job his undercover role demanded, heading for the first table to flag him and his notepad down.

"Patterson, would you gag Rich or something?" Jane asked, her voice much less obviously gleeful than the others, though still tinged with enjoyment.

"I'd be into that. It wouldn't be the first time I've been gagged, though it does make it hard to say a safeword, so I'd like to request a little bell, or a squeaky dog toy, or something else I can use if—"

"Shut up, Rich," all three women said in unison, probably fearful that Kurt would lose his temper completely if he had to listen to the hacker's inappropriate comments for much longer.

_Keep your cover intact. Get through this. Punch Rich. Go home._

He knew roughly where Jane and Zapata would be sitting, since they'd described their position when they'd walked in. He didn't dare look over at them, instead putting on his best fake smile and forcing himself to relax as he took drinks orders. At least the lighting was fairly dim in the club—the main act had just taken the stage and were beginning their striptease—and Kurt didn't have to worry about too much attention. Yet.

He suspected the others had come off comms in order to discuss his appearance—or laugh hysterically—without him hearing. That was fine by him. As long as Patterson was making sure Rich was looking at the door, not at Kurt, they could mock or objectify him all they wanted until the mission was done.

"Oh, a sexy cop waiter!" one woman squealed as Kurt passed by. "I have such a fetish for boys in blue. If I thought he'd show up at my door, I'd dial 911 in a heartbeat. And look at that stubble!"

Kurt thanked his lucky stars his comms weren't sensitive enough to pick up much background noise, and kept his 'I'm enjoying being objectified by multiple women' expression intact with an effort. Every few bars of the song, feminine screams and cheers of appreciation drowned out almost everything else, as the men onstage stripped off items of clothing or did…whatever you called whatever that was.

As he moved around the room, taking orders and relaying them to the bar, then picking up the drinks and ferrying them back, Zapata said, "You know, if I have to plan a bachelorette party sometime, I might arrange it here. This place is way classier than I expected…for a strip joint, I mean."

"And it's definitely cleaner than the hellholes we've had to go to where _women_ are the ones dancing," Jane said.

"Ugh, do _not_ get me started. A few years ago, I had to go undercover as someone interested in a pole dancing job, and the floor was _sticky._"

"Did you have to audition?" Jane asked.

Zapata made a disgusted noise. "Almost. I was already wearing the most revealing outfit I've ever worn outside my own apartment, and I was about three seconds away from being made to change into this skimpy gold bikini and dance to _Bootilicious._ I swear, the cops I was working with were taking their time with their part of the mission on purpose."

Imagining how pissed off Zapata must have been, Kurt couldn't help a genuine grin. Several women at a nearby table made cooing noises, and he struggled not to lapse into an immediate frown, wishing he could check Rich wasn't taking his sweet time on _this_ mission. If this went on much longer, he might have to take a 'restroom break' just to check that wasn't the case.

"Some of these dancers are seriously hot, too. Look at that guy with the blue pants." Zapata said appreciatively.

Kurt glanced at the stage, wondering exactly how far from these professional beefcakes his own physique was. The guy Zapata had pointed out looked like he could—_yup_. As Kurt watched, the guy dropped down into a braced position and effortlessly did a few push-ups to the rhythm of the music, then put one arm behind his back for the next few. It was enough to make any man feel insecure.

"He could do push-ups over me _any_ day," Rich purred in agreement.

_Whose idea was it to give him his own comms instead of just letting him talk to Patterson about the security feeds?_ Kurt thought irritably.

"Oh, god, I have the same taste in men as Rich Dotcom? Just shoot me," Zapata said sourly.

"To be honest, my taste in men is very broad, so that's kinda not surprising. What about you, Pattycakes, who do you have your eye on?"

Predictably, Patterson snorted. "Please. I'm into brains, not brawn. I like men who can say the whole alphabet without having to Google it."

"You could be stereotyping," Jane said, amused. "All these guys could have college degrees, for all you know."

"Pretty sure they're all taking steroids, which have been proven to kill brain cells, so… I very much doubt it."

"How about you, Jane? The guy in the red?" Zapata suggested.

"Uhhh, _none_ of these guys are really doing it for me. Sorry."

"Nah, we already _know_ how Jane likes her men," Rich said. "The evidence is right there in the room with you—"

"Come on," Zapata said sceptically, ignoring Rich. "You work out constantly. You don't like your men ripped?"

Kurt tried not to grit his teeth, wishing like hell that he could tell them all to shut up.

Jane's voice was uncomfortable. "I hit the gym a lot because I don't have much else to do, when I'm not working. Plus it's to stay in fighting shape, not to get guys to notice me. Targets just moved position, by the way. They're a few tables over to our right."

The conversation got back on topic after that, and Patterson again checked with Rich that he was sure the third suspect wasn't already here. Unfortunately, it seemed Kurt's torment would be strung out for a little longer. He noticed the two targets already present checking their phones, as though their third member was running late.

The dances at this club were fairly short, but frequent, with around fifteen minutes between each act taking the stage. With no one onstage to distract them, some of the patrons had started ordering more than drinks from the servers. Not too far away, the guys wearing 'sexy caveman' and 'sexy Scotsman' outfits were both gyrating for the benefit of giggling, delighted women.

A clearly intoxicated, blonde bride-to-be, who didn't look like she was too far out of high school, waved enthusiastically in his direction, and Kurt got the uneasy feeling he was about to get propositioned. He pretended not to see her, taking orders from another table and heading to the bar, intending to linger there as long as possible.

"Oh, god," Zapata murmured, half-amused and half-horrified. "Weller, when I thought you might have to dance to keep your cover, I at least thought it'd be a woman our age doing the asking. If you end up waving your junk in that girl's face, you might have to arrest yourself. I mean, she's got tacky L plates on, so she must be at least eighteen if she's getting married, but she really doesn't look it."

Kurt leaned on the bar, his head turned away from the rest of the club, and growled, "Zapata."

"I'm serious. She and the rest of her bachelorette party are watching you like hawks."

"Yeah, the second you've offloaded those drinks, they're going to send someone over to get your attention." Jane sounded tense. "Rich, any sign of Terri Iverson yet?"

"Nope," Rich said happily.

_Goddamn it._

"I'm not dancing for some drunk kid who's about to get married, Zapata, so come up with a way to stop it." Maybe his tone was a little harsh, but Kurt was at the end of his tether.

"Is that an order, boss?" Zapata asked, in the smooth, silky voice she used when attempting to hide her ire. Obviously, she didn't care for his tone.

"Damn right, it is," he grumbled, as the bartender placed the final drink of Kurt's current customer order on the tray. "I don't care what you do—just do it fast."

Maybe she could get them kicked out for underage drinking, or something. It wouldn't usually be something the FBI concerned themselves with, but…

"Got it."

Unable to put it off any longer, Kurt picked up the tray of drinks and began to head back to the table that had ordered them. He contemplated pretending to trip and spill the whole tray, thereby killing some time with the clean-up, but knowing his luck, he'd end up covered in cocktails, and whatever the club had left for him to change into would be even worse than the cop outfit.

As he put down the last drink, Zapata said, "I'm coming your way, Weller."

Kurt turned, only to find a member of the world's youngest bachelorette party was making a beeline for him, obviously leaving nothing to chance. _Oh, shit—_

"Hey!" Zapata grabbed his arm, spinning him to face her, and he almost hugged her in his relief. "Got a special case assignment for you, Sexy Cop Guy."

He played along as she towed him away from the other interested party, linking his arm through hers. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

Zapata slowed to a stop at the table she'd been sitting at with Jane, who was sipping her drink and surveying the room, surreptitiously keeping half an eye on their targets. Then she pulled a handful of dollar bills out of her wallet and tucked them into his waistband by his hip, smiling widely.

"This is my cousin Jane, and it's her birthday," she said, gesturing at Jane, who stared at them both, her eyes wide with shock and a hint of panic. "She's very shy, but I think she'd _very_ much appreciate a lap dance."

Kurt and Jane locked gazes, both frozen in place. He guessed his expression was exactly the same as hers.

Zapata pulled him a little closer to make a show of speaking into his ear. "Better Jane than the Barely Legal Bachelorette, right? Now stop looking like you're freaking out, or the targets are gonna get suspicious."

With those words of advice, she sat down and flashed him a huge smile, lifting her drink in a toast.

_She is so fired when this is through._

Right now, though, he had to focus. Forcing an easy, relaxed posture, he took the money out of his waistband and deposited it in the small pouch attached to his belt for this very purpose. Then he nudged the table with his foot, and Zapata oh-so-helpfully drew it aside, so he could stand in front of Jane.

_Am I really gonna do this?_ Stalling for time, he dropped into a crouch and rested his folded arms on Jane's knees, looking up at her. Pretending to be speaking to Jane, he said, "Patterson, keep Rich focused on the task at hand. Do _not_ let him get distracted. And while I can actually speak to you—take his comms away. He can tell you when he sees anything, and you can tell us. And I mean _immediately._"

"Oh, come on! I wasn't gonna—" Rich's feed cut off abruptly.

"Done," Patterson said.

Jane nodded as though she was responding to what Kurt had said, fixing a shy smile on her face. "At least that's one thing less to worry about."

Kurt spoke to her directly for the first time. "Jane, if this is too much—"

"I don't think you have much of a choice. The targets are watching you, Jane and Weller," Patterson said apologetically.

Kurt pulled Jane's glass gently from her hand and set it down on the table beside them. "If you'd rather not, we can take our chances arresting these two."

Zapata leaned forward and tucked an extra bill into Kurt's collar, her large, mischievous smile still in place. "That would be a really bad idea. We have no idea where Iverson is and no idea how many bombs she might have around the city."

Kurt didn't care. Regardless of the stakes, there was no way he was doing this without Jane's consent. He kept his eyes steadily on her, waiting.

Jane hesitated one long moment more, then nodded, covering her hands with her face in an exaggerated 'can't believe I'm about to do something so naughty' display.

As if on cue, the background music changed to a slow, hard, driving beat, and Kurt had nothing left to stall with. Keeping his eyes on Jane and swallowing the humiliation he felt, he dragged her chair—while she was still sitting down—a little farther into open space. Then, letting the music direct his tempo, he straddled Jane's chair, resting only a little of his weight on her thighs, and began to roll his hips in deliberate, rhythmic thrusts.

Beside them, Zapata laughed and applauded, revelling in his humiliation, but if he let himself think about that, he'd murder her with his bare hands. Instead, he watched Jane clasp her hands together against her sternum, as though trying to stop herself from touching him as he danced. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth, her eyes roaming from his face to his body and back again, as though she didn't know what to do with herself. Was it an act, or a genuine reaction?

"Okay, not bad, but you need to sell this a little more," Patterson encouraged. "Remember lives depend on this, guys."

_Thank you, Patterson, I'd forgotten,_ he wanted to retort sarcastically. _I'm making a total ass out of myself in front of everyone for fun._

He looked down at Jane just as she was in the process of looking back up at him, and thought he glimpsed a flicker of desire in her eyes. Something inside him gave out. _Screw it. This is already awkward. If we need to sell this, we should sell it together._

He took hold of Jane's wrists, keeping the touch light enough that she could break free if she wanted to, and separated her hands, then guided them down onto his bare thighs, giving her permission to touch him. She was startled at first, but then slid her palms over his skin, the twin caresses cool from where her drink had chilled her hands. Kurt felt a shiver run through him, and hoped like hell she'd think it was from her cold touch rather than the fact that she was affecting him.

Was it his imagination, or was her shy smile less fake now, as she reached up to run her fingers over his biceps? He knew he should probably get up from her lap, turn around, shake his ass in her face or something to vary things up, but the connection between them was the only thing keeping him going right now. If he looked away from her, saw how many women were watching—or filming it on their phones—he was liable to make a run for the locker room.

"They're still watching. Keep going," Patterson said warningly, and Jane stroked her hands down his shirt, then around his hips to cop a teasing feel of his ass.

And then—had she just _spanked_ him? Only lightly, but it had definitely been more than a pat on the cheek. He didn't know if he was mortified, amused or turned on, but as she gave him an innocent '_who, me?'_ look, he had to laugh a little.

_Thank god these pants are so tight._ That was the _last _thing he'd thought would be on his mind tonight, but if the hot pants had been even a fraction less restrictive, he'd be getting noticeably hard at her touch right now, and that was more than he could have dealt with in front of his team. As it was, the pants chafed uncomfortably as he danced, keeping his physical reaction to her under control.

Zapata leaned in and passed another few bills to Jane, speaking in her ear. Because of the comms link, Kurt could hear her easily. "They still don't look convinced. Tuck the money in his pants and then rip his shirt open."

_Jesus Christ, Zapata._

He stifled a groan as Jane carefully tucked the cash into his waistband—this was _not_ how he'd envisioned Jane ever interacting with his clothing. She rested her hands at his lapels and gave him a questioning look, amusement and sympathy burning in her own eyes, and he gave her a tiny nod in response.

Jane ripped the Velcro fastening open dramatically, and a few women around her squealed their appreciation. Kurt closed his eyes for a moment at the reminder of the objectification, battling his urge to call the whole operation off. _Just kill me, somebody._

Jane trailed her fingers downward, pulling gently on his chest hair. His muscles were only lightly defined, not the hard pecs and washboard abs of the men who'd been dancing on stage earlier, but she grinned, warmth in her gaze as she traced her fingers lower. Was she actually enjoying herself?

"Wait, there's a third woman at the suspects' table. Rich, is that Iverson?" Patterson asked impatiently.

Kurt tensed, ready to get up and go for the arrest at a moment's notice. Despite her continued exploration of his body, her hands skimming up to his shoulders under the open shirt, he sensed the same readiness in Jane. Beside them, Zapata noisily slurped up the remains of her drink through her straw, clearly deciding to finish it before the signal.

Patterson sighed, addressing Rich. "You are so infuriating! Ugh! Team, that's her—short brunette with the red shirt. I just activated the signal jammer—they can't get any messages out. You're clear to arrest them."

_Show's over, ladies, and there will be _no_ goddamn encore._ Kurt abruptly stood up straight and made a beeline for their targets' table, ignoring the confusion of observers to focus on the growing alarm of the three suspects. Behind him, he sensed Zapata and Jane closing in, and there were gasps as presumably they drew their weapons.

He was glad he didn't have one. The way he felt right now, he'd probably overreact and shoot someone.

"FBI," he heard Zapata shout, just as he yanked Terri Iverson to her feet, forcibly turned her, then brought her down against the table in an armlock.

"Is this part of the act?" he heard someone exclaim. "I didn't know the servers did kink here."

"My name is Special Agent Kurt Weller, and you are under arrest," he informed Iverson, yanking the cuffs off his belt, then grimacing at the fluffy trim on the things. _Goddamn useless props._

A law-enforcement issue pair dangled in his line of sight. "Think these are a little more secure," Jane said. "Also, if you drive that arm up any harder, you'll probably break it. Ease off a little, okay?"

Realising Jane was right, Kurt loosened his grip on the protesting woman, then cuffed her hands behind her back. "It's been a rough night."

"Patterson, are you free to come and get a suspect? I think Kurt needs out of this outfit," Jane said.

"Sure, let me just check Rich can't wreak any havoc while I'm gone," Patterson replied distractedly.

Zapata leaned over, one hand still on Amelia Lancaster's cuffs. "You gonna get Jane to help you with the wardrobe change? She seemed to be doing a good job."

"Zapata, if you wanna keep _your_ job, shut your mouth—and keep it shut." Kurt turned on her with a glower.

As though realising how thin the ice she was on really was, Zapata followed his advice. She even looked a little contrite, though he wasn't sure how genuine the emotion was.

"I'll keep an eye on Iverson until Patterson gets here," Jane said. "Go get changed, okay?"

He gave her a grateful nod, hardly able to meet her eyes, then made a fast retreat in the direction of the dressing room, trying to salvage the remnants of his dignity.

* * *

**_Epilogue_**

Though Zapata and Jane had both ridden in his car on the way to the club, Kurt had driven back to the NYO alone, leaving all three female agents to travel back in the van, with the wannabe bombers and Rich Dotcom. One of them had probably had to share the back with the criminals, but Kurt had felt no remorse at abandoning them—he'd needed time alone to recover from the most humiliating experience of his life.

Once the suspects were in holding, the arrest paperwork filed, and Rich Dotcom on a transport back to prison without Kurt having to lay eyes or ears on him again, the team disbanded for the night. Everyone was careful with their words around Kurt, as though sensing that his fuse was almost burnt through.

As soon as he'd dismissed the rest of them, he headed into his office with a sigh of relief. He just wanted to get somewhere he didn't have to face the reality of what he'd done, so he could pretend it had never happened. Preferably with a large measure of Scotch. But first, he'd wait for the rest of them to finish up in the locker room and leave.

"Kurt? Could I talk to you for a second?"

He turned to find Jane standing hesitantly in the doorway, her expression conflicted.

Part of him wanted to turn her away, tell her he just wanted some space to nurse his deflated ego. But she had every right to want to discuss what had happened tonight. What they'd done had probably stretched their awkward friendship beyond repair.

"Sure—come in."

Jane stepped into the office and closed the door behind her. With the blinds over the glass partition wall drawn, obscuring the view of SIOC, the spacious room suddenly seemed far too small and intimate to contain the two of them.

Kurt gestured for her to have a seat, but Jane shook her head. "I won't stay long. I just, uh, wanted to ask if we're okay."

_I don't know. Are we? How could we be, after what just happened?_

"Sure. We're okay."

Jane was silent for a moment, as if she'd expected more of a discussion, but he was lost for words. "Okay," she finally said, and took a half-step backward.

He nodded, meeting her eyes for a brief instant, then turning away.

Jane sighed. "Kurt, you can barely look at me."

He scowled at her as she advanced on him, hoping to stop her in her tracks, but she didn't falter until she stood within arms' reach. "We can't be like this out in the field, or one of us will end up dead. Please, just talk to me. I'm sorry if I took things too far tonight."

Kurt couldn't hide his surprise. "If you—? Jane, I'm the one who should be apologising. I was the one getting in your personal space, putting your hands on me—"

"And I'm the one who kept them there. And, uh, let them wander." Now she was the one having trouble maintaining eye contact. "And I was the one ripping your shirt open."

"I remember." His voice emerged lower than he intended, and he cleared his throat, shaking his head. "I guess…we made the best of a difficult situation, and we did what we had to do to close the case."

Jane looked up at him, nodding a little too fast. "Right."

"Right." Before, he'd found it difficult to meet her eyes, but now he couldn't look away. To make things worse, he noticed a glimmer of mischief growing as she reached out to slip a finger between two of his shirt buttons.

"What…?" he started, as she slid her finger down to where the next button began, the touch lightly tugging on the shirt as the fastening impeded her progress.

"Just checking this shirt has real buttons, not Velcro." She stepped back with a smile.

"Very funny." He tried for stern disapproval, but was unable to stop his own self-deprecating amusement from showing. "By the way, for someone who kicks as much ass as you do…you don't spank very hard."

Her eyebrows rose. "Maybe I was taking pity on you, seeing as you were so embarrassed."

He rolled his eyes, nodding, but then turned serious. "Honestly, though? If you hadn't been there—if it had just been the rest of the team—I might not have kept it together long enough for Iverson to get there. Weird as it sounds, you kept me steady in the middle of the worst undercover mission of my life, so…thank you."

"I, uh… You're welcome." Seeming a little flustered—after everything that had happened, _this_ was her tipping point?—Jane glanced towards the door. "I guess I should head home."

He was about to agree and wish her goodnight, but then she bit her lip, just as she had during their reluctant lap dance. And after everything they'd already done tonight… "Jane?"

She looked up at him expectantly, and he stepped forward, sliding his fingers into her hair. The second she registered his intentions, she was rising on tiptoe to meet his lips, her body colliding with his as they kissed for the first time in almost a year.

When they parted, breathless and overwhelmed, all he could think to say was, "At least something good came from wearing that damn outfit."

Jane laughed, and he was just about to kiss her again when a knock at the door intruded upon the moment. By mutual agreement, they stepped apart, and Kurt called, "Come in."

Patterson cracked open the door wide enough for her head. "Glad I caught you before you went home. Sorry to interrupt, but…I think Shepherd's about to make some kind of move. It might not be Phase Two, but whatever it is, it's probably not gonna be fun."

"Be right there, Patterson. Thanks."

A hint of stifled curiosity on her face, Patterson glanced between the two of them, then retreated, closing the door softly behind her. In the silence that followed, Kurt reached for Jane's hand. "Can we pick this up again later?"

She gave him a smile that took his breath away. "I'd really like that."

One last soft, longing kiss later, Jane pulled out of his arms and headed for the door. "You know, I could probably rip open that shirt, too. It'd just take a little more force."

His brain shorting out, Kurt looked from her teasing grin down at his securely buttoned, charcoal-grey work shirt. By the time he looked back up at where she'd been standing, she'd gone on ahead.

None of his team were ever going to let him live this down, but if he and Jane could salvage something from this whole mess, it would have been worth it.

Remembering how he'd looked in the mirror in the stripper's outfit, and Rich Dotcom's gleeful commentary over comms, he grimaced and shook his head, heading down to the lab. It would _almost_ have been worth it.


End file.
